The Doctor's Patient
by Mavelle
Summary: A lady very ill. A dark and mysterious man. Can Holmes and Watson discover the truth in time? Updated: Chapter 2!
1. A Midnight Visit

Author's Note: Hello to everyone on the Sherlock Holmes board! Yowch, how many months has it been? Sorry to everyone who has been following Timeless Enemies; my life went insane during the summer.working seven days a week does not leave a lot of time for writing. I had decided to put TE on hold for awhile, but no sooner had I made the decision than I was struck with inspiration for my next chapter. So it goes. I am working on it, and will hopefully have Chapter 6 up soon. In the meantime, I present to you Chapter One of my new story. Enjoy!  
  
Lots and lots of thanks to the wonderful March Hare for beta reading this for me!  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters created by the wonderful, the fantastic, the incomparable Conan Doyle. Dammit!  
  
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The Doctor's Patient By Mavelle Chapter One - A Midnight Visit  
  
I have said before that of all of Sherlock Holmes' cases only two were brought to his attention by me. This is not precisely correct. There was another, but I have been restrained from telling the story for the past ten years. However, those involved have recently removed all such injunctions, as it now matters little who knows about it. I therefore am pleased to lay the full facts before my readers.  
  
It was about a year after my marriage. My practice was thriving, and so busy was I that I had not seen Holmes for close on a month. I knew his cases had been few and far between of late, and I was quite worried that in the absence of any mental stimulation, he might turn, as he so often had before, to the cocaine bottle. I fervently hoped that a new and challenging problem would come his way soon, but I could not have foreseen the sinister mystery which was to come in answer to my wish.  
  
It was a rather damp night. My wife was away on a visit to a friend, and I was warming myself by the sitting-room fire before retiring for the evening. As I have said, I was quite busy due to a rather nasty influenza going around; in fact I had just come back from a call. I was, therefore, not surprised when Sally, our maid, entered the room to tell me that man was here, and wished me to return home with him to see a patient. I was, however, surprised at Sally's condition. Her face was deathly pale, and she was trembling.  
  
Concerned that she might be falling ill, I gently took her wrist to check her pulse and found that it was racing.  
  
"Are you quite all right, Sally?" I asked, attempting to check for fever. She eluded me and bit her lip nervously.  
  
"I am well, sir," she said, "but if you please sir, I . . . I am quite frightened by that man in there."  
  
"Has he molested you in any way?"  
  
"No sir," she replied, "but he frightens me nonetheless."  
  
I was somewhat worried, for my maid is a good, practical, sensible girl, who does not jump at shadows. This was quite unusual behaviour for her. Nevertheless, I sent Sally to bed, and entered my consulting-room (rather cautiously, I must admit), to meet my visitor.  
  
The moment I saw Mr. Jonas Hamilton, for that was the name on his card, I understood what had frightened Sally. He was a large, dark-haired man, with thick, black eyebrows, a heavy beard, and piercing eyes that darted around the room, missing nothing. But it was not his physical appearance that sent shivers of fear down my spine. The man exuded an aura of menace. He seemed like a hunter constantly stalking his prey.  
  
Fear is not a sentiment that a medical man can indulge in, however, at least not when a patient is concerned. I thrust my feelings aside and went in to meet him.  
  
"Mr. Hamilton?" I said, extending my hand. "I am Dr. Watson." He did not return my greeting, nor did he take my hand.  
  
"I have been told that you are a man of discretion, Doctor," he said bluntly. "Is this true?"  
  
I was rather offended.  
  
"I can hold my tongue; perhaps somewhat better than the next man," I replied.  
  
"Good. Then, Doctor, you will accompany me to my home. A guest of mine has fallen ill, and I wish you to examine her. I will pay you tonight, in cash."  
  
Certainly this man wasted no words on politeness. I fought down a rising surge of anger. I would not let the innocent patient suffer for this man's rudeness, so I swallowed my pride, got my bag, and followed Mr. Hamilton to the waiting four-wheeler.  
  
The curtains of the cab were drawn to prevent me from seeing out. This closed-in carriage strongly reminded me of the case of Mr. Melas, the Greek Interpreter, and I must confess that I trembled in fear of what might be waiting for me. Nor did Mr. Hamilton do anything to assuage my fears, for he sat in ominous silence, staring at me with his fierce eyes the whole time.  
  
After an uncomfortable drive of perhaps half an hour, we came to a stop. Mr. Hamilton motioned me out of the cab and up the steps of the house. A severe-looking woman who, I was informed, was the housekeeper, Mrs. Avery, admitted us. I found myself in a large, but rather dismal foyer, facing a set of stairs leading to the upper floor. In front of the steps Mr. Hamilton stopped and faced me.  
  
"Now, Dr. Watson," he said, "You will examine the lady whom you will find upstairs. Mrs. Avery will show you the room, and remain with you during the examination." He gave me an unpleasant smile. "Just to ensure that everything is properly done, of course."  
  
I resented his implications, and I had the distinct impression that he was more concerned with making sure I did not poke around upstairs, than of preventing any improper behaviour. However, I held my tongue and proceeded upstairs after the housekeeper.  
  
I entered the sickroom, followed closely by the grim and silent Mrs. Avery. On the bed lay a young woman of about twenty. Her cheeks were flushed with fever, and sweat had plastered her hair to her brow, but it was easy to see that she was quite lovely. I stepped up to the bed, and proceeded to examine her, all the while under the watchful eyes of the servant.  
  
The girl appeared to be only half-conscious, but I found nothing to seriously alarm me. At one point she called out for water. I looked around and, seeing none, asked the housekeeper to go and fetch some.  
  
"Beggin' yer pardon, sir," she replied, "but my orders were to stay here."  
  
I was rapidly losing patience with this entire household.  
  
"My good woman," I said, adopting the firm, no-nonsense tone I use with troublesome patients, "the lady is very ill and must have fluids. I cannot leave her, even if I did know the way. You could send someone else, but then you will still have to leave to find someone. Therefore it will be much more convenient for everyone involved if you simply get the water yourself."  
  
I have often found that tone of voice to be far more effective than shouting. The woman said nothing, but left the room. I resumed my examination, and was taking a bottle from my bag when a hand grabbed my wrist.  
  
I turned in surprise to see the young lady half sitting up in bed. I attempted to make her lie down, but she gripped my wrist with surprising strength and brought my face close to hers.  
  
"You must help me," she said, in a low urgent voice, tinged with delirium. "He is a devil and a traitor. He will kill me if he knows."  
  
I made some soothing noises and tried to calm her, but she would have none of it. I attempted to bring her to reality by asking her name.  
  
"Elizabeth Carlisle," she gasped, and she fell back on the bed, as if drained of energy. I quickly felt her pulse, but found no change. As I did so, the door opened and Mrs. Avery returned. I took the water and held it to the young lady's dry lips. Then she closed her eyes, and seemed to go to sleep.  
  
I must confess I was at a loss what to do. My first instinct was to dismiss it all as delirious ramblings; however, I had received a very unfavourable impression of the master of the house, and began to wonder what the true state of affairs was here. My thoughts still in a tumult, I packed up my bag, and after uttering a few reassuring words to my patient about the state of her health, I went downstairs.  
  
Mr. Hamilton was waiting impatiently at the bottom of the stairs for me.  
  
"Well, what is your opinion, doctor? Will she recover?" He fired these questions at me before I had a chance to say a word. I almost detected a genuine note of worry in his voice; however, the idea was so contrary to what I had already observed of his character, that I dismissed it in my mind.  
  
"Given time and proper care, she stands an excellent chance of making a full recovery," I said. "Someone should remain with her at all times, and be sure she receives plenty of liquids. I have left some medicine with your housekeeper and instructions on when it should be administered."  
  
"Excellent. Then here is your fee, in cash as promised. The cab is waiting at the door to take you home."  
  
I was not to be put off so easily, however.  
  
"Mr. Hamilton," I said, "you are very generous, but I would prefer to wait for payment until my patient has fully recovered, whereupon I shall send you my bill."  
  
"Doctor, I assure you," he replied, "we will not need your services again. You have said the lady will recover, and I shall take you at your word."  
  
"Sir," I said, beginning to get angry, "you do not understand. Influenza is not as harmless as it appears. The lady may seem to be recovering, but influenza can take a nasty turn if not watched carefully. Pneumonia may develop, which is exceedingly dangerous."  
  
"I do not think you understand, Doctor," he said, crossing his arms and looking at me with a malevolent gaze. "As far as you are concerned, she has recovered. You may leave your medicines for her, but you will not be returning here, so if you wish to be paid for your time I suggest you take what I offer now."  
  
One look at his face, and I realised that attempting to argue with this man would be an immensely foolish idea; disgusted, I took the proffered money, and immediately found myself roughly escorted to the waiting cab. As the cabbie took up the reins, Hamilton thrust his head in at the window.  
  
"Remember, Doctor," he said in a voice that chilled me. "Discretion." 


	2. A Case of Nobility

Author's Note:  Hope you enjoy Chapter 2!  Please R & R!

Disclaimer:  I do not own anything created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

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The Doctor's Patient

By Mavelle

Chapter 2 – A Case of Nobility

            As the cab drove away, I found I could not stop thinking about the young lady.  All my instincts told me something was wrong in that house.  I glanced at my watch and though it was nearly eleven, I was suddenly seized with a desire to call upon Sherlock Holmes.  I called up to the driver to take me to Baker Street.

            The cab pulled up to 221B, and a glance at the upper windows showed me that Holmes was keeping his usual irregular hours.  Although I attempted to knock as softly as possible, a reproachful Mrs. Hudson, who was quite indignant at being woken, admitted me to the house.  Assuring her that I would not call this late for any reason other than one of great importance, I made my way up the stairs to the rooms I had once shared.

            I found Holmes bent over his chemicals, quite oblivious to the lateness of the hour.

            "Watson, my dear fellow," he cried when he saw me.  "What an unexpected surprise!  I do hope Mrs. Watson has been enjoying her trip?"

            "Yes, her last letter was filled with descriptions of the delightful times she was having," I said, "but I have not seen you since before she left, so how did you know. . . ?"

            "Watson," he chuckled, "I have the advantage of knowing you very well.  That tie you are wearing is one you particularly like; however, I recall you saying that Mrs. Watson does not admire it at all.  You are too much the gentleman to offend her sensibilities by wearing it when she is likely to see it, therefore I can deduce that she is away at the present time."

            I laughed.  "You have found me out, Holmes," I said.  "I can only implore you not to turn me in when Mary returns."

            "No fear of that, my old friend," said Holmes.  "Now, do sit down and try one of these excellent cigars and a glass of brandy, while you tell me what has brought you here at this hour."

            I did as he said, and proceeded to tell him the whole story of Mr. Jonas Hamilton, and the mysterious Miss Elizabeth Carlisle.  As I spoke, I saw Holmes move from his languid pose to one of intense interest.

            "Holmes, I feel certain that something is not right," I finished.  "She was delirious, of that I have no doubt, but I believe there is more to it than that.  She was afraid of something."

            Holmes looked thoughtful.

            "And there is the very singular behaviour of Mr. Jonas Hamilton," he said, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.  "Now Watson, tell me everything you can remember about the girl herself."

            "She had long, dark hair, and a pale complexion in spite of the fever.  She spoke in very cultured tones, so I would venture to say she is from the upper classes.  Her hands would confirm this, for I noticed they were white and smooth, and bore no signs of labour.  I would place her age at around twenty."

            "Excellent, Watson!  Like a fine wine, you improve with time.  Now, have you heard the name Carlisle before?"

            "It does seem familiar, Holmes," I replied, "but why, I do not know."

            "Kindly hand me my C volume, Watson," he said languidly.  If I had not known Holmes better I would have thought he was bored by my problem.  I knew, however, that his quiescent attitude disguised a keen interest.  I took the familiar volume down from its place on the shelf, and handed it to Holmes.

            "Let us see.  Ah, here we are!  Read this, Watson," he said, handing the book to me.

            I took the book and read:

                        _Carlisle__, Edmund – 8th Earl of Carringford, K.G.  Ambassador to France, 1870-_

                        1875, Ambassador to Italy, 1875-1880, Ambassador to Germany, 1880-1885.  

                        Married Anne, daughter of Viscount Hartford, 1868, died 1885.  Son and heir, 

                        Lord Edward Carlisle, born 1873.  Daughter, Lady Elizabeth Carlisle, born 1869.  

                        Invested into the Order of the Garter, 1887 for services to the Crown.  

                        Address: Ridley House, Knightsbridge, London; Carringford Manor, Oxbridge.

            "Good heavens, Holmes," I exclaimed.  "This could be she!"

            "It is a strong possibility, Watson," replied Holmes, "however, I shall not form any conclusions until I have visited the Earl, which I shall do tomorrow morning.  Or rather, this morning," he added, glancing at the clock which showed a time well past midnight.  "Shall you be available to join me, Watson?"

            "For a few hours in the morning, Holmes," I replied.  "But I shall have to leave you for the afternoon.  I have a very long list at present and cannot spend much time away."

            "In that case," said Holmes, "may I suggest you take advantage of your former chambers so that we may start as early as possible?"

            I took his advice and retired for the night, leaving Holmes sitting in his chair, staring at the fire.

            The morning found us in a cab bound for Knightsbridge, one of the most affluent neighbourhoods in London.  We were not disappointed in Ridley House, either; the imposing edifice spoke of generations of wealth.

            We were admitted to the house by a solemn butler, who showed us to a drawing room and left to fetch the Earl.  As we waited, I found my gaze wandering until it focused on a large portrait hanging on the wall.  It was of a beautiful young lady, wearing a white gown, standing under a weeping willow.  Her dark hair was unbound and flowed to her waist, while her eyes were downcast, giving every impression of a demure young lady.

            "Holmes," I exclaimed in astonishment, "this is she!  This is the lady I treated yesterday."

            He came over and examined the painting.  "A lovely woman," he said.  "And confirmation that we have come to the right place.  Do you notice her hands, Watson?  I think…."

            "May I help you gentlemen?" said a cold voice behind us.

            Holmes and I turned quickly, to see a man who could only be the Earl, standing in the doorway, and glaring at us.  He was a handsome man, with dark hair, and finely chiseled features.  His daughter was a feminine copy of him, except for the eyes.  Where she had soft, dark eyes, his were a clear blue, and as cold as ice.

            Holmes adopted his "professional" smile: polite, but without any real warmth.

            "Good morning, Lord Edmund," he said.

            The man looked at Holmes they way one might look at an insect on a flower.

            "You appear to have the advantage of me, sir," he said coldly.  

            "I do beg your pardon," replied Holmes, "I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson."  The Earl nodded slightly towards me.  "Might I enquire, my Lord, who the lovely subject of this portrait is?"

            At this question, the Earl's whole manner changed.  His coldness melted away, and a slight quaver entered his voice, as he replied,

            "The lady is my daughter, sir.  That portrait is all I have left of her."

            "She is dead?" asked Holmes.

            "I do not know," said the Earl, "She disappeared a month ago, and I have not heard from her since.  I believe her to have been abducted by one Jonas Hamilton.  I fear she may even be dead!"

            The Earl sat down heavily on the sofa, his head in his hands, and then looked up, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him.

            "Can it be, Mr. Holmes, that you have some word of Elizabeth?  If you do, then for God's sake, man, tell me!"

            I opened my mouth to tell the Earl what I knew, but felt Holmes' restraining hand on my wrist.  I understood that he did not wish me to reveal the location of the Lady Elizabeth yet.  Although I did not understand why, I have learned through experience not to question Holmes' methods.  I subsided and let him speak.

            "I regret to say, that is not the case, Lord Edmund," replied Holmes.  "Watson and I called because we had heard you have one of the finest art collections in England, and, being art fanciers ourselves, we had hoped to view it.  We had not heard of your troubles, and I apologize if our coming has opened the wound in any way."

            At these words, the Earl stood up, and his earlier abrupt manner returned, as if he was ashamed of his former weakness.

            "That is quite all right, Mr. Holmes.  I am certain that you have much more important demands on your time than locating one man's only daughter.  I have heard your name mentioned among the private detectives in London, and I naturally assumed that you could have no other reason for coming here."

            "Quite understandable," said Holmes.  "Forgive me my lord, but have you asked the police for help in finding your daughter?"

            "Mr. Holmes, I believe her to have been abducted, but society would be only too ready to believe that she went willingly.  I could not bear to have scandal attached to her name, and so I have kept this quiet, circulating a story that she is traveling on the Continent.  In the meantime, I have certain...connections, sir, and they are quietly searching for her.  I hope you understand that I do not wish this information to become public?"

            "Of course," replied Holmes.  "You may depend upon the greatest discretion from Dr. Watson and myself."

            "Thank you, gentlemen.  You will forgive me if I ask you to leave now."  It was not a question.  All traces of the grieving father had disappeared, and he was once again the stiff and formal man who had entered the room.

            We took our leave of the Earl, and it was not until we were seated in our cab once again, that Holmes finally spoke.  He turned to me with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

            "That man is lying, Watson," he said, "but why?"


End file.
